A Birthday to Remember
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Blair is turning 30 - but he's not sure if this is a cause for celebration...or not!


_Special Note_ _: This one is dedicated to Red Hardy, who inspired one specific scene, and RokiaHDA, who requested that it be immortalized. Love you guys!_

Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was originally written in 2005, so technology is not at a 2017 level. Please pardon that fact.

 _Note: Thank you to the oh-so-kind people who have indicated they enjoy reading these stories! You're the best!_

 **A Birthday to Remember**

 **By**

 **EvergreenDreamweaver**

Blair Sandburg absently flipped the pages of his desk calendar over and stared gloomily down at one in particular. May 24th was approaching more rapidly than he would have liked. He sighed softly.

Ordinarily, Blair looked forward to birthdays. He had for years. He enjoyed parties, was very fond of birthday cake, liked getting, and was usually very grateful for, any gifts that might come his way. But this year, it felt different. This year, he was turning what his fellow detective Henri Brown might have termed "The Big 3-0," and he was surprisingly disturbed by it!

Born after the famous "Never trust anyone over 30" phrase had been coined, Blair had had its essence drilled into his curly little head for years while growing up. Naomi Sandburg rarely trusted _anyone_ completely, over 30 or not! Plus, Blair had been around university campuses for so long that student culture was ingrained, and that mistrust of the 'older generation' had become a fact of life.

Now _he_ was on the verge of becoming one of those who were not to be trusted. It made him nervous, even while he laughed at himself and his idiotic notions. He'd be the same person he was on May 23rd, just a day older – but even he had to admit that he wasn't anything _close_ to the same person he'd been, say, five years previously! Come to think of it, he was _already_ one of the ones who weren't to be trusted – no, make that trusted, but wary of, slightly disliked, perhaps – being a police officer! That was marginally cheering. It was easier to be not-trusted by the younger generation because you were a cop than to be not-trusted because you'd just had a birthday...

"Chief?" The low voice penetrated his dark little cloud, and Blair looked up, summoning a quick smile for his partner-against-crime, Jim Ellison, who was looking keenly at him across their adjoining desks. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." Blair casually let the calendar pages flip back to the current week, hoping Jim hadn't noticed what his attention had been fixed on. "Fine."

He sighed to himself, knowing that his hope of evading Jim's notice was futile. Even if Ellison hadn't observed the calendar, he would know that something was amiss, just by 'reading' his partner's heartbeats and breathing patterns. _Sometimes, having a Sentinel for a partner and best friend is a pain!_ And he'd pick up on the calendar...Jim was meticulous about observing Blair's birthday; except for the very first year of their acquaintance, when they'd only known each other for a month or so, Jim had made sure of at least a small celebration, complete with presents, every year, and he always remembered the date. Coming up on five years, now. Blair sighed again, and studiously leaned towards the computer screen, ostensibly concentrating on the expense report he was compiling.

Jim wasn't fooled; his enhanced senses had picked up Blair's accelerated heartbeat, as well as the quiet sighs. Having seen the calendar page, he knew Blair was contemplating his upcoming birthday, but he wasn't sure why it seemed to be upsetting his roommate and Guide so – and then it struck him: _Blair's turning 30 this year! Oh Lord._

 _Thirty._ Jim, now approaching 38 himself, remembered turning 30, but only vaguely. He couldn't recall whether or not he'd been depressed about it... _probably not_ , he decided. He'd been out of the Army Rangers by then, and part of Cascade PD. Had he still been in Vice, or had he already transferred to Major Crimes? Just transferred, maybe – and he didn't remember whether or not anyone had taken especial note of his birthday. Probably not – admittedly, he'd worn a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder, back then. He hadn't been married to Carolyn, but they'd been dating. Maybe they'd gone out to dinner to celebrate, or something.

 _Blair deserves more than that._ He deserved much more, and Jim was determined that he would _get_ more – although perhaps it wouldn't be the _best_ idea to try and duplicate the extravaganza the Major Crimes unit had put together last year, when their brand-new detective had turned 29. Jim smirked to himself at the memory. They'd lulled Blair into thinking they were merely going out in a group after work, for a celebratory drink at Magoo's. After a suitable amount of time – and liquor – however, a pair of belly dancers [arranged for by Rafe and Brown] in suitably gauzy draperies, had whirled in amid a wild tintinnabulation of bells and little finger cymbals, and concentrated all their efforts on Birthday Blair. Jim had never seen his partner blush so much before; Sandburg had been fiery scarlet for the rest of the evening.

 _But he got a kick out of it, once he stopped cussing us out_ , Jim thought fondly, giving said partner a surreptitious glance. Blair was still concentrating fiercely on his computer screen; his mouth had an unhappy droop that Jim hated to see, and the Sentinel highly doubted that it was because of the expense report!

Coming to a quick decision, Jim seized the nearest file folder on his desk and got to his feet. "Need to talk to Simon for a minute," he murmured to Sandburg, who nodded acceptance without taking his eyes from his report, and headed for the captain's office.

"Captain – could I have a minute?" Jim knocked lightly on the partially-open door with one knuckle and popped his head around the door.

"What do you need, Jim?" Captain Banks looked up from his perusal of his own paperwork, and frowned at the folder in Ellison's hand. "I thought everything was okay with all your cases—"

Jim entered the room and shut the door behind him, raising a cautioning finger to his lips. "This is just a ruse," he said, grinning, and slid into the chair in front of the captain's desk.

Banks stared at him, his stern face softening with a curious smile. "Okay, I'll bite – what's up?"

"It's Sandburg's birthday on the 24th."

"Ahhhh, yes!" The smile broadened into a grin.

"He's turning 30," Jim continued.

The grin was becoming a tad bit malicious now. "Thirty, hmmm? The kid's marching right on up over the hill. Hard to believe!"

"Simon—" The younger man raised a forestalling hand. "I think he's depressed about it."

"Depressed? Sandburg?" Banks snorted in disbelief.

"Yes," Jim insisted. "You doubt me, sir?" he added, and Simon shook his head.

"No, I'm not doubting you, not when it involves Sandburg; I've learned better over the past few years. Although it seems unlikely. So...you're telling me this because...?"

"Because I want to figure out some way to celebrate his birthday that won't make him even more depressed." Ellison eyed his superior officer . "And since you're the Captain, after all..."

Banks fixed him with a mock-severe stare. "Planning birthday parties is not part of my job description, Detective!"

"But helping me...?" Jim hadn't lived, worked, and played with Blair Sandburg for five years without learning some of his wiles; he could emulate the pleading-eyes expression quite nicely by now.

Simon rolled his eyes and snorted, but gave in without further struggle. "I'll help, I'll help! But not today, Jim; I've got—" The ringing of his telephone interrupted them. "Banks! Yeah – yeah – got it." He scribbled rapidly on a scratch pad, signaling Jim with his eyes: a case was coming in. "Okay, I'll get somebody on it." He ended the call and extended the slip of paper. "Jewelry store robbery, downtown. You and Sandburg are caught up; take it!" he commanded.

Jim stood up, glancing at the note. "We're on it, sir." He exited the captain's office and snapped his fingers, attracting his partner's attention. "Let's roll, Chief!" He tossed the file folder onto his desk, and snagged both their jackets from the coat tree.

Blair, with a few swift clicks of his mouse, saved his report and shut down the program. He slipped his glasses into his pocket, and stood, adjusting his holster. Within thirty seconds the two detectives were striding towards the elevator, Ellison slightly in the lead.

And that was the last time either had time or opportunity to think of birthdays for the rest of the day.

#####

The next few days slid by in a blur. Jim and Blair privately decided that an evil Gypsy must have laid a curse on the upright citizens of Cascade, for more accidents and mishaps occurred than was normal for a month, let alone a week! The less-upright citizens, i.e., the criminal element – probably in league with the Evil Gypsy – decided to take advantage of the situation, and sprang into action with diabolical intent; therefore, the police – both plainclothes and uniforms alike – were constantly running to extinguish figurative brushfires and pick up pieces of illustrious Cascadians, or investigate cases which multiplied by the hour.

Major Crimes being, as always, at the forefront of things, Ellison and Sandburg were furiously busy – and not immune to the accidents!

While returning from interviewing witnesses one afternoon, they found themselves directly behind a truck carrying a load of... _something_...in sacks, on a flatbed trailer. For some unknown reason, the driver slammed on his brakes and swerved abruptly, just as he was going beneath an overpass. The truck crashed into the concrete abutment, the trailer tilted, and one of the large sacks slo-o-o-o-o-wly slid to the pavement – and burst open!

Jim had stopped his pickup when the accident occurred, and Blair had leaped out, intent on reaching the truck driver and ascertaining his condition. He was, therefore, in exactly the right place at the wrong time when clouds of powdered sugar exploded from the ruptured sack – and received a face full – and more importantly, several lungfuls – of the stuff!

Although the sugar wasn't toxic, having one's respiratory tract suddenly filled with a cloying, fluffy substance was a fairly serious mischance – and it resulted in Blair spending the rest of the afternoon receiving oxygen in the hospital's emergency room, while his anxious partner fretted, hovered, and paced the little cubicle where he lay.

"Jim..." Wearily, Blair lifted the oxygen mask just enough to be able to speak clearly. "C'mon, man, stop looking like that. I'm gonna be fine; you heard the doc!"

"I can also hear your lungs, and they don't sound fine to me!" the Sentinel growled. He halted his restless pacing, and laid a hand on Blair's ankle, over the light blanket covering him. "Dammit, Chief, what if that hadn't been sugar? What if it had been...I don't know, sulfur, or lime – fertilizer, for instance, instead of—"

"Jim...Jim. It was sugar. It wasn't toxic. I'm okay. Stop worrying so much! Save the Blessed Protector routine for something serious." With a sigh, Sandburg replaced his oxygen mask and closed his eyes, but not without first smiling affectionately at his best friend.

Jim, with a matching sigh, patted the blanket-covered ankle and resumed his chair beside the cot. "Next time, maybe you won't go running headlong into danger like that," he muttered. "If you'd stayed back..."

Blair opened his eyes again, and gave his partner a long stare. Then he deliberately removed the oxygen mask once again and propped himself up on an elbow. "You mean, you think we'd be better off if you were the one that got blasted with powdered sugar?" he demanded. "YOU? It might've killed you!"

"It wouldn't have killed me, Sandburg; I'm not hypersensitive to powdered sugar. If I was, I'd never make it as a cop; I couldn't eat doughnuts... " Jim could scarcely speak, through his laughter and the indignant sounds his Guide was making. "Stop sputtering like that. Breathe. Oxygen, remember? And lie down."

Reluctantly, the younger detective complied, with one last subdued glare at his partner.

Enforced inactivity was finally giving Blair time to reflect again on his approaching birthday. Just now, he wasn't so much concerned about the fact that he was going to become 30 in a few days, since he had just faced the possibility that he might not _survive_ to become 30 in a few days! The powdered sugar might well have been dry fertilizer, or some other chemical, and the results would have been much more serious. He eyed Jim covertly from under his oxygen mask – and long eyelashes – as the older man once more began prowling restlessly about the little room.

 _I wonder if there's some plan afoot to surprise me with a birthday party? Nobody's had much time to do anything, that's for sure!_ Blair pondered that for a little while. Would he mind if there _was_ a surprise party? Would he mind if there _wasn't_? _Well...yes and no._ He didn't want a party, necessarily, but he wanted to be wished 'happy birthday,' and be treated just a _little_ special that day. He just didn't want to be considered over the hill. That was it, he realized. He wanted the celebration and the presents; he just didn't want anyone to mention his age! The thought made him want to laugh.

Languidly, he lifted his wrist and consulted the date on his watch. The 18th. My, my, time did fly when you were having fun – or working your tail off – didn't it? He wondered if he'd hear from Naomi; she usually tried to be around near his birthdays, or at least get in contact with him. _Maybe my turning 30 is a shock to her, as well!_ After all, he thought with a wry smile, Naomi, whose personal anthem was apparently _Forever Young,*_ might not want to be reminded that she had a son aged 30. As long as Blair had been a college student, she could keep up the illusion of his youth – and her own. It wasn't as easy now that he was a police detective. _And_ _turning 30,_ the wicked little voice in his head chanted.

He cast another discreet look at his roommate, and tried to figure out how one managed to find out...oh, so casually...whether someone was planning to throw a birthday party. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that no matter how carefully he phrased it, he still came off sounding either sullen – or needy _. 'You weren't thinking of trying to surprise me with a birthday party, were you? Because I don't want one...' 'Uh...Jim? Were you planning on us doing anything for my birthday?' 'Want to go out next Monday after work, and have cake and ice cream, Jim?'_ Nope, it always came out wrong.

"Chief?" The sound of Jim's voice brought Blair back to awareness of his surroundings. "You okay? You're scowling – something hurt?"

"Uh – no, no; I'm fine. Just tired of lying here, I guess."

"Take advantage of it," Ellison said dryly, "it's the first chance you've had to rest for awhile!"

Blair smiled at that. "Okay," he murmured, and closed his eyes.

Jim was doing a little scowling of his own, for his thoughts were, had he but known it, paralleling his partner's. How do you find out from somebody – namely Blair Sandburg, the most inquisitive, curious guy in Cascade – _unobtrusively –_ whether they'd like to have a birthday celebration, or if it would make them feel either childish, or point out the fact that they had reached a milestone decade? _'Chief, are you okay with having a birthday celebration this year?' 'Any thoughts on how you'd like to celebrate your birthday?' 'Blair, do you think you'd like a party with the guys from work, or should we just go out to dinner or something, on your birthday?' 'Hey, Chief, got a birthday-present list for me?'_ He grimaced. They all sounded...condescending.

He gazed at his Guide fondly – and then smirked. _Oh Blair, if you could only see yourself right now!_

As if he'd heard Jim's unspoken thoughts, Sandburg opened his eyes and caught the amused expression on the Sentinel's face. He removed the oxygen mask once more. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing..."

"Don't give me that, I know better. What is it?"

Jim let the smirk develop into a full-fledged grin. "Just thinking; I know now what you'll look like, 30 years down the road."

"Huh?" Sandburg blinked in confusion. "What're you talking about?"

"Your hair, Chief. The powdered sugar didn't just hit your face, remember?"

With dawning realization, Blair turned his head and pulled a strand of ordinarily-chestnut-hued hair into his view. To his dismay, he found it was almost completely _white,_ the natural brown showing only marginally through the powdered sugar coating! "Oh, for Pete's sake...Right, just laugh it up, Ellison; at least I still  have hair!"

His partner gave him a reproachful look. "That was beneath you, Sandburg."

"Jeez, I gotta get outta here and go home and wash this stuff out of my hair," Blair fretted. "Don't you think I could leave now?" he appealed to Jim, who tilted his head a little, focusing on listening to the slightly wheezing respirations. "You could convince the doctor that I ought to leave..."

"Nope. Not yet," the Sentinel opined. "And put that oxygen mask back on."

Sandburg scowled, but obeyed with surprising docility, and for a few minutes there was silence in the little cubicle. Then, to Jim's surprise, he heard a giggle from his irrepressible Guide, and heard him singing something softly, beneath the mask.

"' _...Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?'_ "**

The older detective grinned. "Yes – and yes. Are you sure you're getting straight oxygen, there, Chief? You're startin' to sound like you're on laughing gas!"

"I dunno," Blair mumbled. He hummed a few more bars of the song.

"Hush. When you're singing, you're not concentrating on breathing."

"You don't like me to sing?" Blair sounded distinctly hurt – and slightly punch-drunk. "You don't like my singing? You don't love me," he accused.

"On the contrary, Chief, you sing great, and I think you're just damn swell. Now SHUT UP!" Ellison stalked out of the cubicle to find a medical person who could check on whatever it was that his partner was inhaling, being almost positive that somewhere along the line it had switched to nitrous oxide.

Left momentarily alone, Blair grinned. _I won that round!_ But he pulled the long strand of hair before his face again, and surveyed it with some concern. Suppose that when he washed out the sugar, he found _gray_ hairs? Even a few would be too many!

And he wasn't nearly so pleased with himself when Jim returned with a disposable camera from the hospital gift shop and proceeded to take pictures of him in all his powdered-sugar glory!

Blair was allowed to go home in the early evening, to his great relief. He fully intended to head immediately for the bathroom, as soon as they reached the loft, and take a long hot shower to rid himself of the clinging sugar.

Jim's teasing suggestion that they just add some butter and vanilla to his hair, and make frosting, received such a hostile barrage of pillows, articles of clothing – including shoes – and more-or-less breakable objects, all accompanied by expletives and threats, that the Sentinel, adroitly dodging the missiles, escaped upstairs to his bedroom, thankful he hadn't mentioned it until _after_ Blair had taken off his gun! Wisely, he left the field of battle to his partner, who stalked off to take his shower, still shouting insults. After all, Jim Ellison had been in the Army long enough to know how to make a strategic retreat!

#####

It seemed that the Fates were satisfied, once they'd caused Blair's mishap, for things settled down into what passed for peace in Cascade. The police officers' days once more became routine – and the Major Crimes Division had time to think about how to arrange for Blair's birthday celebration.

Trying to discuss it without Detective Sandburg overhearing anything proved to be easier than expected; Blair had several meetings that week with the Assistant D.A. preparing for a court testimony. While he was absent from the bullpen, the other detectives huddled, in pairs or larger groups, trying to decide what exactly to do.

Rhonda was the one who finally decided it for them. She listened patiently to wild ideas from Brown and Rafe, to even wilder ones from Megan Connor; she nodded understandingly as Jim insisted that emphasis on Blair's age would make his partner unhappy; she smoothly agreed with Simon that the department's work schedule wasn't to be disrupted, even for this important birthday. At last, she said merely:

"Well, for heaven's sake, then don't have a huge celebration at all! Don't try to ignore it and then surprise him – that's childish. Wish him 'happy birthday' all day long, if you want, give him presents at intervals as the schedule permits, take him out for lunch and after work! What's the big problem?"

Faced with this practicality, they admitted there wasn't really all that much of a problem, after all, and set about planning small observances to space throughout the day.

Jim was relieved. He had no qualms whatsoever about teasing his partner – the powdered-sugar pictures had been posted on as many bulletin boards throughout the building as Ellison could manage, and although Blair routinely ripped them down whenever he saw them, Jim calmly and methodically replaced them. But he was cautious about others needling his partner, even their friends in Major Crimes; Blair usually handled taunts with good grace, but from the people he worked closely with, he was wont to take things too much to heart. And this thing with age...well, Jim simply didn't want an unhappy Guide.

#####

The 24th happened to fall on a Monday, so there was no question of getting to sleep in late, or having the day off to play. It was work as usual – but when Sandburg staggered out of his bedroom, knuckling his eyes and scrubbing his hands through his wildly-disheveled hair, he noticed a mouth-watering aroma filling the apartment – and perked up immediately.

"Mmm! What do I smell?" he demanded of Jim, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee.

"Cinnamon-streusel coffee cake," Ellison replied, a hint of pride in his voice. Jim was a decent cook, but baked goods weren't his strong point. "Happy birthday, Chief," he added, and wrapped an arm around Blair in a warm hug. "Make it a fast shower, it'll be out of the oven in...15 minutes."

Blair returned the hug and scampered to take his shower, smiling broadly. There were advantages to having a birthday, he decided. When he emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, he saw Jim removing the coffee cake from the oven, and inhaled blissfully. He picked up the mug of coffee waiting for him on the counter and took a sip; closed his eyes and smiled.

"You've got a few minutes to dress, while it cools enough to cut," Jim observed. "Snap it up, birthday boy!"

All in all, Blair decided, as he scrambled into his clothes, this was starting out to be an auspicious day, 30 years old or not!

#####

At work, greeted with 'Happy birthday, Blair!" and a quick peck on the cheek from Rhonda; followed by a gift-wrapped box of chocolates from Henri and Rafe – who assured him that they would give the contents a quality-control test as soon as it was opened – and the offer to buy him a drink after work, from Megan, Sandburg decided that birthdays were pretty nice affairs, even when one was 30. He and Jim settled in at their desks and started going through paperwork.

He began to have second thoughts an hour later, as there were definite signs that the demonic Fates had decided to visit the precinct today. Apparently the phone system was acting up; Major Crimes was getting calls usually directed to both Animal Control and 911. The telephones had been ringing off the hook. If it had been true emergencies, that would have been one thing, but today, every crackpot in Cascade had decided to call, each conversation weirder than the one before, causing incipient hysteria among the detectives.

Jim was clenching his teeth in that molar-cracking way he had when things were getting to him, Megan was muttering Aussie swear-words, and whenever Simon popped his head out of his office, he looked closer and closer to an explosion – whether or anger or laughter, Blair wasn't sure.

"Yes, ma'am...yes, I understand...Ma'am, this is the Major Crimes Division, we don't handle...No, ma'am, I don't think a raccoon eating your cat food is a matter for a SWAT team...no, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am, I have to get another line..." Jim hung up with what was most definitely a whimper.

Blair, involved with his own strange conversation, could only roll his eyes and silently try to convey sympathy.

"Yes, sir, you say someone stole your mailbox? Right...right. Can you tell me your address?"

" _It's gone, dude, how'm I s'posed to tell you the address when the mailbox is gone?"_

"Sir, you must know your address. Don't you? Sir? Hello?" Shaking his head, Blair disconnected the call as a sudden dial-tone came through the receiver.

"Major Crimes, Connor...ma'am...ma'am, calm down, please, I can't understand you. Take a deep breath – okay, what seems to be the problem? A what?" Megan, while holding the receiver to her ear with one hand, was pounding softly on her desk with the other, trying not to laugh. "A wild what? A wild...mouse. In your house, yes, ma'am, I understand. In your living room, yes...Um...and you called the police about this because...No, ma'am, not usually, although I can direct a patrol car to stop by if you'd like, just this once." She stopped pounding long enough to write something down, apparently an address. "Yes, I'll see to it – thank you, I like my accent too." The redhead ended her call and whooped with laughter. "Jimbo! Care to go catch a wild mouse for a lady?" she caroled, and laughed harder at Ellison's harassed expression.

"No, sir—" Rafe's voice was uncharacteristically tight. "I find it difficult to believe you saw a moose on Culver Avenue, but...yes, sir, I'm sure you thought it was a moose. No, no one else has called to report a moose, but we'll keep an eye out..." He finished the call and looked around at his fellow detectives. "A MOOSE? Where's that guy think we are, Anchorage?"

"If someone sees a black panther, we're in trouble," Blair hissed to his partner, who made a valiant attempt to turn a muffled snicker into a cough.

By noon Blair was positive his hair _was_ turning gray – what was left of it, after he'd been pulling it out in fistfuls all morning. He was also sure that Jim was going to need dental work soon. He suspected Megan was going to ask for a transfer back to Australia at the end of the day. Shoot, he wasn't sure _he_ didn't want to transfer to Australia at the end of the day, too!

"Ready for lunch, Chief?" Jim sounded surprisingly calm, considering the morning they'd had.

"Huh?" Wearily, Sandburg looked up from the totally bizarre report he was attempting to write. "Lunch? I dunno, Jim, I feel too frazzled to eat."

"You'd feel better with something in your stomach," Ellison encouraged gently.

"How come you're suddenly so okay with it? So...I don't know – serene. This was the Morning From Hell, Jim, in case you've forgotten!" Blair scowled resentfully at his partner.

"I know, but I'm telling myself that the afternoon has got to be better," the older man chuckled wryly. "And besides, we'd planned to take you to lunch, and I don't see any reason to change things at the last minute. That's what everyone's been hanging onto, looking forward to, all morning." He waved a hand at the rest of the bullpen, and Blair looked around.

To his surprise, the other Major Crimes detectives looked as if they might have spent the hectic morning quietly doing reports. None of them appeared as drained as he felt, and evidently the word 'lunch' was rejuvenating them, anyway. They all wore hopeful smiles – directed at _him_. "Ugh...I'm not sure I can even eat," he sighed. "I think I'd've rather spent the morning chasing criminals around the streets of Cascade!"

"Don't say things like that," Henri chided him from across the room. "You might get your wish. Where you want to go to lunch, Hairboy?"

"I don't know – I can't think right now." Blair leaned his head into his hands, massaging his throbbing temples. He was vaguely aware of Jim getting to his feet and coming to stand behind him, putting careful hands on his shoulders and rubbing gently. "Thanks, man," he mumbled, the words muffled by his palms.

"Take it easy," the Sentinel murmured, just loud enough for only Blair to hear. "You know how – remember?" His voice warmed with amusement. "I am...relaxed. I am...relaxed..."

"If you suddenly yell 'Boo!' at me, I will kill you, right here in the bullpen," Blair threatened in a whisper, but the shared memory made him chuckle, and his tension eased. "Oh man, don't stop; that feels really good."

"It's supposed to."

"If you don't have any preference for lunch, Sandy, how about that new deli over on Gerard – it's only a few blocks from here," Megan suggested. "We could walk there, and it's not just takeout; there are tables to sit and eat there."

"And stop at that little French bakery on the way back," Joel chimed in, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "The...whatever... _Paris Patisserie_ , isn't it? We could pick up your birthday cake, Blair."

Blair stared at the former Bomb Squad captain, his blue eyes going slightly glassy. "The _Patisserie de Paris?_ Oh, MAN! Am I ever down with that!"

Jim grinned broadly. "Joel, you just said the magic words. Sandburg will go through flood, fire, and erupting volcanoes to get to that bakery!"

"Chocolate-filled éclairs," his partner murmured ecstatically. "Cream puffs...Grand Marnier cake..."

"Come on, don't go orgasmic now." Ellison pulled him to his feet. "Save it for after lunch."

#####

Since it was a classically pretty, Pacific Northwest late-May day, they decided to follow Megan's suggestion and walk to their lunch destination. At the last minute, Simon had gotten a telephone call from the Chief of Police, which threatened to keep him tied up forever, and he morosely gestured for his detectives to go on without him. Rhonda loyally stayed at her desk, insisting that Simon needed someone there to cover the other phone lines. She did, however, demand that they bring her back some lunch...and dessert from the _Patisserie!_

They set out: Megan and Joel in the lead, followed by Rafe and Brown. Jim and Blair brought up the rear. They were forced to pick their way carefully along the second block; remodeling and reconstruction of an older office building was underway, and scaffolding blocked part of the sidewalk. Stacks of two-by-fours and sheets of wallboard waited to be raised. The percussive _snap_ of air guns, tapping of hammers, whine of pneumatic drills and shouts among the workers filled the air.

"That's odd," Ellison commented to his partner as they edged through the mess.

"What"

"Some of the scaffolding is wooden. I thought they always used metal, these days, but they must've hauled that stuff out of storage, or something."

Blair paused, turned his head and stared at it, frowning. "Yeah...guess so," he said at last, and started walking again.

Once past the construction, it became evident that Henri and Rafe were having an intense conversation, although what it was they were discussing wasn't clear. Blair raised an inquiring eyebrow at Jim, who shook his head; he hadn't been listening in. Curious, they stepped a little closer.

"It is so!"

"It's not – they're completely different."

"No they're not!"

Their voices increased in volume as each strove to make his point. Finally, Rafe snapped "Let's ask Sandburg, then; he might know!" and turned around to face Jim and Blair, walking backwards.

"Blair—"

"Yeah?" Sandburg tried to look encouraging. This wasn't the first time he'd been used as a encyclopedia or dictionary on two feet.

"Can you answer a question for us?"

"I can try, sure."

"Is a maple bar a doughnut, or not a doughnut?" Rafe demanded.

"HUH?" Blair blinked stupidly. He'd been expecting some esoteric question about human cultures, or psychology, or at the very least, Jags trivia! He'd definitely not anticipated a question about doughnuts; it wasn't his area of expertise at all! Beside him, he heard Jim's muffled snort of laughter, and jabbed a swift elbow in the direction of his Sentinel's ribs.

Jim evaded it neatly, and bent close. "It's that Jewish heritage," he whispered in his partner's ear. "They think you're King Solomon."

Blair choked slightly, and this time tried to step on Jim's foot.

"It's a doughnut, right?" Now Brown had swung about too, also stepping backwards along the sidewalk. Joel and Megan, overhearing, slowed their pace to listen in.

"It's _not_ a doughnut," Rafe interjected, shaking his head firmly. "Doughnuts are round. Usually they have holes in the middle. Maple bars aren't round and they don't have holes. They aren't doughnuts!"

"They're made of the same stuff!" Henri insisted. "It's the same batter, it's just in a different form. Mashed potatoes are still mashed potatoes when it's in a different shape – or cookies. So's...um...meatloaf. So if it's the same stuff, then they're both doughnuts."

Jim went into a coughing fit at that, dodging another elbow from his Guide. Above the hand pressed against his mouth, his pale-blue eyes sparkled wickedly.

"How often do you find mashed potatoes in a different shape?" he murmured, to no one in particular.

"When they pipe 'em through those fancy dealies and they come out sorta striped," Brown fielded the question. Ellison lifted an eyebrow, surprised that Henri had had an answer that fast.

"Is this coming from one of those strange telephone calls this morning?" Blair demanded, grinning.

"No, we just started talking about it before we left," Henri muttered. "Rafe's wrong."

"I looked it up in the dictionary!" Rafe crowed in triumph. "It said a doughnut is ring-shaped. Ring-shaped, H., ring-shaped! A maple bar is rectangular! So it's a bar, not a doughnut!"

"Do they charge the same price for one?" Megan asked, trying to be helpful.

"Probably," Rafe conceded reluctantly.

"And they're made from the same batter," Joel added, repeating Brown's earlier comment. Henri nodded, taking this as a vote for his side.

"Yeah...but..." Rafe huffed with frustration. "They're different!"

"A filled doughnut doesn't have a hole, and it's still a doughnut." Joel was evidently batting for H's team. Brown grinned; Rafe scowled in frustration.

"I've seen something called Doughnut Sticks, in the market," Megan said. "They're not round and they don't have holes, but they're called doughnuts, all the same."

"There, see?" Henri nodded emphatic agreement.

"They make maple-frosted doughnuts as well as maple bars," Jim put in offhandedly; he was apparently playing Devil's Advocate – or just perpetuating the argument for his own amusement. "Same as chocolate-covered ones. So that means they aren't the same thing; why have two identical items?"

"SEE?" Rafe rounded on his partner triumphantly. "They're not the same! Ellison says so. Hah! HAH! I win!"

"Who died and made Jim God? Why does he get the last say in this?" Brown protested.

"Shhh, shhh," Blair cautioned. "We're here, guys; let's settle this later! We can ask 'em at the _Patisserie_ when we stop there." Shaking his head, he ushered his fellow detectives into the deli, wondering just _who_ was the adult in this group, birthdays notwithstanding!

#####

The birthday lunch completed, the six detectives sauntered back towards the precinct, enjoying the hazy early-afternoon sunshine – reluctant to return to the zoo which their bullpen had been earlier. They walked a couple of blocks over, to get to the little bakery – and Jim wasn't the only one who nearly zoned on the appetizing aromas wafting around them when they entered!

"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm!" Brown inhaled deeply.

"Ought to be illegal," Joel, who was endeavoring to lose weight, sighed. "But it's not!" he added, smiling.

"So, Chief, what's it going to be? I'll spring for your lunch dessert, but if there's a cake to be bought, everyone's chipping in." Jim gestured towards the refrigerated glass cases, and raised an interrogatory eyebrow in his colleagues' direction.

"We were going to get Sandy a cake...but I don't fancy carrying a cake back to the station, through all that construction mess," Megan demurred.

"We can keep it for you, and you can pick it up later," the young man behind the counter suggested. "Just pick it out now, I'll give you the receipt, and you can pick it up when it's convenient. We're open until eight o'clock."

"That works," Joel nodded approval.

Sandburg smiled happily. "And you guys can all come over to the loft for cake tonight after dinner," he suggested. "That way Jim and I don't have to worry about trying to eat it all up before it spoils."

"Hey!" his roommate rebuked him, "I don't think we'd have any trouble!"

"Riiiiight, Jim. That's what I'm afraid of!" Blair set about the difficult task of choosing both a dessert for immediate consumption, and a cake for later. He opted for his favorite chocolate-frosted éclair; Jim paid for it, and his own individual-sized apricot tart, and they both munched with great satisfaction as they surveyed the various types of cakes. "Chocolate raspberry ganache...hmmm, Strawberry Grand Marnier...Oh God, Jim, look at the Chocolate Truffle cake!"

"I'm looking, I'm looking," his partner groaned. "Sandburg, choose and let's get out of here before I decide to buy one of everything!"

After gathering opinions from his fellow-detectives, Blair decided to go with the Black Forest cake, and happily pocketed the receipt to pick it up after work. After selecting goodies to take back to Rhonda and Simon, the six left the little shop and once more headed for the station.

"Ah, shoot, we forgot to ask about maple bars!" Henri lamented.

"That place was too classy to ask about maple bars," Rafe countered. "Just let it drop, H., they're two different things, that's all."

Brown huffed indignantly, but didn't pursue the subject further.

"Do we cross the street again, or dodge under all that junk?" Megan queried, gazing down the block at the scaffolding and equipment blocking their way.

"We'd better just pick our way through it," Joel advised, "we're going to be late as it is."

Accordingly, they started out, but before they had gone another half-block, Ellison halted abruptly, cocking his head.

"Do you hear that?" he demanded of Blair, who rolled his eyes in despair.

"No, Jim, I don't hear that – hear WHAT?" The words were acerbic, but his hand on Jim's arm was gentle and supportive, as always.

"Something's cracking...oh Jesus, it's the scaffolding!" Jim yanked his arm free and sprinted down the sidewalk, frantically yelling, "GET OFF! GET OFF THE SCAFFOLDING! IT'S GOING TO COLLAPSE! GET OFF, NOW!"

Blair and the others ran after him, shoving through the startled pedestrians, adding their own shouts of "Cascade PD! Move! Get back! Get out of the way!" to Jim's bellowed warnings.

Construction workers, heeding the officers' cries, were scuttling down the scaffolding, leaping to the sidewalk, climbing into open windows in the building. The detectives, heedless of their own safety, stood beneath, assisting the fleeing crew members to the ground and away from their precarious perches. The wooden structure's creaks and groans were now audible to everyone's ears, not just Ellison's.

"There, that's all, isn't it? Come on, move it, get away from the building—" Blair panted as he tried to herd the last few workers away from the tottering scaffolding. "—come on, it's dangerous..."

"WATCH IT! It's going!" Joel's shout nearly deafened Sandburg; the big man was directly behind him. He backed up, moving automatically – and then halted, searching for Jim.

"Come on, Blair!" Joel grabbed his arm and pulled hard.

"No, wait, where's Jim—" Blair tried to resist, his eyes still searching through the tangle of wood, metal, equipment, stacks of studding... _There!_ He caught a flash of his partner's lithe figure, moving through the structure towards them. "Jim! Get outta there! Hurry—"

And before he could finish his sentence, there was a rumbling crash, a snapping of timbers, the shivering, splintering sounds of shattering window glass, and the scaffolding collapsed in an untidy pile which resembled nothing so much as a giant's set of Pick-Up Sticks.

Collapsed...with the Sentinel buried beneath the rubble.

"Nooooooooo! JIM!" Sandburg's scream was swallowed up in the noise generated by the falling structure, and the accompanying shouts of those watching it. "JIM!" Instinctively, he started forward, intent on reaching his partner, but Joel's strong grip on his arm brought him up short. "Joel, let go; we've gotta get him out—"

"Blair! Blair, wait! You can't just go rushing in there; it's not stable!" the older detective warned, not loosening his hold.

"We've got to get him out!" Sandburg protested, struggling against the restraining hands. "Let me go, Joel; we've gotta help him!"

"Sandy, hang on a minute..." Now Megan was there too, adding her efforts. "We'll get him out; we will. But just wait..."

Brown and Rafe were rapidly explaining to the crowd of construction workers and wide-eyed onlookers that there was someone trapped under the collapsed scaffolding, and already the crews were moving with grim purpose, starting the painstaking job of removing the rubble, piece by piece – careful not to jar anything enough to cause it to slip. Rafe and Henri moved to help, and Joel, handing Blair over to Megan's care, joined them.

Blair stared at the mess with wide, horrified eyes. _Jim...oh God, you've got to be all right!_ It wasn't that there was so much debris on top of his partner, for the scaffolding had been merely framework. But there had been bundles of long two-by-fours on the scaffold, the large, plate-glass windows on the building's ground floor had been shattered into lethal shards – and the wooden framework had splintered upon impact, leaving long, jagged, wickedly-pointed pieces which could kill a man immediately, if he were impaled. If Jim were under there, bleeding to death, and they didn't reach him in time...

A quick, merciful death – or a slow, agonizing one. Death, either way.

Freeing himself from Megan's hold, Blair moved forward, to add his assistance to the work of extricating his Sentinel from this deadly situation, tears sliding unheeded down his face.

Sirens announced the arrival of a Fire and Rescue team, who added their efforts and their expertise. The delicate work went on, with the detectives' help less essential, now that the professionals were on the job. Blair retreated only a few steps, refusing to go further away. His gaze remained locked on the mass of splintered wood and shattered glass, willing his Sentinel to be alive beneath it.

Suddenly, to Blair's surprise, a familiar voice caught his attention. "Sandburg?"

He turned his head. Behind him stood Simon Banks, breathing heavily and looking as if he'd just run several blocks – which he had. When reports of the accident reached him, some premonition had told the captain his detectives were involved.

"Simon..." The words caught in his throat, and for an instant Blair was unable to continue. "Jim...Jim's the one...underneath!"

Banks shook his head in consternation. "I knew when I heard, it had to be one of you." He put a hand on the younger man's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "It'll be all right, Sandburg; you know Ellison's practically indestructible."

"I know...but..."

"Hell, remember when Colonel Oliver grabbed him? We were certain he was dead – but he came through that okay," the captain reminded him. "And you said you thought he'd been killed when he got tossed off that train—"

"Yeah." Blair nodded, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for an instant. Simon was right. Jim would survive; he was nothing if not a survivor. _But you can't outwit being punctured with glass shards, or what's essentially a wooden spear,_ a nasty voice in his head jibed.

"Blair!" The shout came from Henri, several yards away, where the rubble was the thickest. "They've found him!"

Heart in his throat, Blair scrambled forward, Simon hard on his heels.

"H! Is he—"

"Step careful, Hairboy; the footing's tricky," Brown said, interrupting Blair's fevered demand. Blair caught his lower lip between his teeth and tried to watch his step, while continuing to move forward. He could see the paramedics crouching, hear one of them speaking, trying to get a response...

"Detective! Detective Ellison, can you hear me? Detective?"

Blair pushed forward again, and found his way blocked by a well-meaning person from Fire and Rescue; he didn't register whether it was even male or female, only the uniform. His focus was solely on that too-quiet body ahead.

"Sorry, you can't—"

"Let him through." Simon Banks knew how to use his authority when he needed to. "I'm Captain Banks, and this is Ellison's partner, Detective Sandburg. They're from my department."

Even in this horrible situation, Blair felt the tiny thrill he always did when he heard his title. _Detective Sandburg. Ellison's partner_. It was something to be proud of...something he was immensely – _intensely_ – proud of being. Not Doctor Sandburg, not yet, although he still had some ideas about achieving that, in the sometime-future. Then it would be Doctor-Detective-Sandburg, or Detective-Doctor-Sandburg...He shook off the wandering thought, took the last few steps and squatted down next to Jim, not daring to kneel in the splinters of glass.

Jim was lying on his back, his patrician features lax in unconsciousness. He was coated with dust, so much so that any color in his face was hidden under the layer of grime. Glass fragments and little pieces of wood covered his clothing. There were small cuts and scratches visible, but no sign of major blood loss.

"Is...he...?" The lump in his throat was nearly choking Blair. "Is he...all right?"

"It's amazing," one of the paramedics said quietly. "Do you believe in miracles, Detective?"

Did he believe in miracles? A smile briefly flashed across Sandburg's face. _Duck waste in pond water...a leap from an airplane into a Peruvian jungle...the cold waters of a fountain... 'You're the best cop I've ever met and the best partner I could have ever asked for...' 'Detective Ellison is looking for a permanent official partner.'_

"Oh yeah, I believe in them," he whispered.

"He's taken a knock on the head, but other than that, and some cuts and bruises, everything looks fine, all his vitals are good," the medic went on. "Doesn't look like there are any internal injuries. The way the stuff fell, he was sort of cradled – it didn't fall directly on him."

"Thank God," Simon rumbled, somewhere above Blair's head.

"It's incredible; he could have been skewered, or sliced to ribbons by the glass—"

Blair was hearing none of it; his attention was focused solely on his Sentinel; on watching the quiet breathing, the infinitesimal flutters of Ellison's long eyelashes against his tanned cheeks.

"Hell of a birthday, huh, kid?" Banks' voice finally penetrated.

Birthday? Oh yes, it was his birthday, wasn't it? A time for blowing out candles and making wishes...

Sandburg glanced up at his boss, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Simon, I just got everything I could have possibly wanted for a birthday present, right now," he whispered. "I'll never ask for another thing—"

"...z'at mean...I can...take back your...presents?" a rasping whisper interrupted. Ellison coughed, trying to clear his throat.

Blair swiveled back. "Jim!" he cried softly, and reached a tentative hand to his partner's face, gently brushing away some of the dust. "Take it easy, buddy," he murmured. "And yeah, if you want to take back the presents...I meant what I said."

At that point the medics intruded again; since Jim was conscious, they had a long list of questions that they demanded be answered, and a routine they wanted to follow, which included transporting the dazed detective to the hospital.

But Ellison, characteristically, refused to go, once he had ascertained that his only injury – aside from a myriad of small glass cuts, scrapes from pieces of wood, and assorted bruises – was the blow to the head which had knocked him senseless. He scrambled to his feet, using Blair's shoulder as a prop, and then leaned against his partner when Blair stood up too.

"I'm okay, just...uck...filthy. Once I get cleaned up, I'll be fine," he asserted, waving the medics away dismissively. They retreated dubiously, and the other detectives from Major Crimes all chuckled.

"Typical Ellison; half-dead one minute and back in the saddle the next," Brown commented softly to Joel, who grinned and nodded agreement.

Jim tightened his grip on Blair's shoulders, feeling the minute tremors shaking his Guide. "Chief, I really am okay."

"I know...I know. Talk about having your birthday wishes granted..." Blair wound his arm tightly around Ellison's waist, both as a support for Jim and as an anchor for himself. "But I also know you're not as okay as you're trying to make everyone believe. I need to get you home. Think you can make it back to the station?"

"Yeah, sure." But Jim sounded weary at the mere thought of walking the short distance.

"No need, Sandy." Megan was standing in front of them. "I went back and got my car. Get in, and I'll take you back."

"Connor, I take back at least half the things I've ever said about you." Ellison heaved a sigh of relief and let Blair and Megan steer him towards the Inspector's car, double-parked in the street nearby. Then he hesitated. "Wait...I'll get the seats dirty—"

"So I'll stop by a car wash and vacuum them! Get in, you bloody idiot!"

"Literal truth," Sandburg muttered, easing his partner into the back seat and sliding in beside him. He pressed his shirt sleeve here and there on Jim's face, trying to mop up the tiny rivulets of blood.

"Think you're...so funny, don't you?" Ellison let his head rest against the back of the seat and kept his eyes closed.

"Shhh," Blair remonstrated, as Connor maneuvered her car through the congested traffic. "Rest."

Blair had intended on taking his partner home the instant they got back to work, but Jim, declaring that he couldn't stand to be covered in dust, splinters and glass shards one minute longer, insisted that they go to the locker room instead, so he could take a shower.

"But Jim...man, you should go right home...I know the medics didn't think you'd concussed, but—"

"I've got to get cleaned up now, Chief, not later! I've got some clean sweats in my locker. And since I don't have a concussion, maybe after I've taken a shower I'll feel okay enough to stick around the rest of the day, who knows?"

Sandburg shook his head, but accompanied his stubborn Sentinel to the locker room and waited, trying not to hover too overtly, while Ellison stripped off his bloodied clothing and showered.

"NOW will you let me drive you home?" he demanded peevishly, when Jim was dressed in his workout clothes.

"Don't be so cranky, Chief. I'm feeling a lot better now. I'm good to go for the rest of the day." Jim surveyed himself in the mirror. The cuts had stopped bleeding, but he still looked pretty battered. "Well, as long as I don't have to go out and do interviews, or something like that!"

"You're crazy," his Guide groaned. "Absolutely nuts. Hard-headed, stubborn, intractable..."

"I prefer to think of it as steadfast and resolved," was Ellison's grinning rejoinder. "Besides, I know you. You'd get me home and fuss over me, and then decide that I'm not up to having people over for the birthday-cake thing tonight, and I've got my sights set on that cake!"

"Oh, Lord! I'd forgotten all about that."

"Well, remember it. We're not calling it off. Come on, let's find out if those phone lines are fixed yet!"

Thankfully, they were. The rest of the afternoon was downright subdued – and the occupants of the Major Crimes bullpen relished every blissful second of peace and quiet.

At 5:30, Sandburg clicked 'Save' one last time, and closed out the report program on his computer screen. He powered down, and glanced toward Jim, who was leafing through a manila file folder and frowning thoughtfully. The Sentinel had held up pretty well through the afternoon, thanks to a hefty dose of ibuprofen, but discomfort was evident in the tight lines of his bruised and battered face, and the way he occasionally shifted in his chair.

Blair wanted nothing so much as to get him out of the building, away from work, and give him a chance to rest.

"Something up with that case?"

The older man shook his head, and closed the folder. "Nope. Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow, anyway. You done?"

"I am. C'mon, we have a cake to pick up, and dinner to eat."

The phone ringing on Blair's desk stopped them before they'd gotten five feet away. Blair glanced back at it, and then at his partner. Dang, he really wanted to go home – he did _not_ want to answer the insistent summons.

"I could just let it ring," he said tentatively.

"Mmm-hmm." Jim waited, letting Blair make the decision.

The phone rang again.

"Damn it." He sighed and reached for the receiver. "Blair Sandburg."

" _Blair sweetie, I'm glad I caught you! Happy birthday!"_ Light, sweet, familiar, the voice came over the wires, and a happy smile broke out over Blair's face.

"Mom!"

Smiling tolerantly, Jim eased a hip onto the corner of his desk and prepared to wait it out.

" _I was afraid I might miss you – I forget about time zones!"_

"Time zones? Where are you?"

" _Kona,"_ his mother informed him gaily. _"The Big Island."_

"Kona, huh? That sounds like a lot of fun, Mom! You having a good time?" Blair stifled a tiny sigh. _It would be nice to be in Kona...Well, maybe when vacation time rolls around again...next year. Or the year after._

Jim was apparently reading his mind. He caught his partner's eye and winked. _"We'll get there,"_ he mouthed silently, and Blair grinned back, cheered.

Naomi had been chatting on during this interchange, and now Blair focused on her words again.

" _Have you had a nice birthday, honey?"_

"Well, it's been...interesting," he hedged, thinking of the weird morning, the devastating lunch hour, and the quiet afternoon.

"' _Interesting' from you means I need to start worrying,"_ his mother said, sounding more concerned.

He chuckled. "No, everything's okay, Mom. We just had phone problems at work, and we got some really strange calls, this morning." He'd write to her about the fallen scaffolding – later. _Much_ later.

" _Are you doing something nice to celebrate your birthday?"_

"Yes, Mom," he said dutifully, and grinned again at Jim, who was making an obvious – obvious to Blair, at least – attempt _not_ to listen in to both sides of the conversation. "Jim and I are going out to dinner and then we're having the guys from work over, after. They bought me a cake!"

" _Oh, that's so sweet!"_ Much maternal approval was evident _. "In that case, I won't keep you. I've sent a package; it should get there today or tomorrow...or by the end of the week, anyway. Give Jim a hug for me – love you, Blair!"_

"Thanks, Mom – you're the greatest. Thanks for calling – love you! Bye!"

He hung up the phone, smiling. "She's in Kona, and she's mailed a present," he told Jim.

"You've got a nice mother, Chief."

"Yeah, I do, don't I?"

Informing everyone that birthday cake would be served at the Ellison-Sandburg apartment at precisely eight-thirty, they managed to make their escape without any further interruptions, and took the elevator to the basement parking garage.

As he almost always did, even on the best days, Blair gave a tiny shiver. No matter how many times he entered it – and he went in three or four times a day, on average – the parking garage gave him goosebumps; it brought back hazy memories of standing on the hood of a car and wildly firing Jim's backup weapon, attempting to drive away demons only he could see...He shivered again.

"Don't think about it." Ellison's voice was calm and soothing.

Blair turned disbelieving eyes on his partner. "You taking up mind-reading now? You're just spooky sometimes, Ellison!"

"You're just easy to read sometimes, Chief." The tone was teasing, but something made Blair wonder if the Sentinel didn't share his superstitious aversion to the place. "Come on, let's get that cake. What do you say to the Marco Polo for dinner? There won't be a crowd this early, and I can go there dressed like this; nobody will care."

"Sounds good to me!"

#####

It was now 7:45. The Black Forest cake sat in all its glory on the table. A pot of coffee – decaf – burbled away, filling the loft with its inviting fragrance, and water steamed in the teakettle. Blair stood in the kitchen, making sure everything was ready _. Paper plates, napkins, cups, forks, sugar and creamer – yep, we're set!_

He turned to glance into the living room, where Jim was stretched out on the couch, a cold, wet washcloth folded over his eyes. The Sentinel had made it through dinner, insisting he felt okay, but when they got back home, he'd finally admitted to a crashing headache developing, and allowed Blair to talk him into lying down for awhile. Sandburg devoutly hoped the nap – and a couple Tylenol™ – had helped!

"Jim? Jim, you awake?"

"Hmm?" Ellison removed the cold pack and turned his head, blinking sleepily.

"You feeling any better?"

Jim yawned, then sat up, rubbing a hand gingerly across his face. "Yeah, I am – it's better. Pretty much gone." He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders, then moved to put the washcloth in the bathroom. When he came out, he joined Blair in the kitchen, where the younger man was still standing. He moved to place his hands on his partner's shoulders, squeezing lightly.

"Still think you don't want any other birthday presents?"

Blair chuckled. "Thought you were going to take 'em back!"

"Well, since I didn't get around to it yet..." Ellison tugged gently on his arm. "We've got time before that plague of locusts arrives." He pulled Blair into the living room and sat him on the sofa. "Close your eyes," he invited.

"Jim, I'm 30, not eight!"

"Humor me. And keep 'em closed until I tell you."

Laughing, Sandburg complied, and Jim made a hasty, quiet trip up the stairs to his bedroom, where he retrieved boxes from beneath his bed.

"I'm opening my eyes," a threatening voice came from below.

"Oh, no you don't. You keep 'em closed, Chief."

"Then hurry up!" Blair bounced with impatience, looking much younger than 30.

"Keep your shirt on." Jim made his way down the stairs and placed the boxes on the coffee table. "Okay, open."

"Aw, Jim – thanks!" Blair eyed the boxes with delight. "But you didn't need to, you know."

"Didn't have to – wanted to. Happy birthday, Chief. You had kind of a long, hard day, but hope it was an okay birthday, overall."

"Yours was harder," Blair said softly.

"But it wasn't my birthday, so it doesn't count. Go ahead, open 'em."

Blair didn't comply immediately; he was still thinking about the 'hope it was an okay birthday' comment. "Jim," he whispered, "it's been a great birthday, overall...the weird telephone calls and the scaffolding aside. And I know it was because you did everything you could to make it a good day for me – thanks, man; it means a lot, it really does. But the best part of it was you being okay, not being badly hurt – you know that."

"I know, Chief, I know." Ellison smiled at his partner's earnestness. "And believe me, I'm not arguing it!"

"At least I sure can say that my 30th birthday is one I'll never forget!" Blair's smile was teasing and infectious. "This isn't the sort of day that fades from your memory!"

Jim laughed. "That's for sure. Now, get to the presents, will ya?"

The first box was large and rectangular – and contained a heavy, cream-colored fisherman's-knit sweater and matching long-sleeved silk t-shirt. Blair inhaled sharply when he saw them.

"Oh, man...Jim, thank you! It's great!" He caressed the t-shirt's softness gently, and carefully lifted the sweater from the box to hold it up and admire.

"Purely self-interest," Ellison disclaimed. "I get tired of hearing your teeth chatter on stake-outs, and you never dress warm enough."

The next box was small and lightweight. Blair opened it, lifted the wadded-up tissue paper, and then just stared at the contents, mumbling: "Admit One...February...Seattle..." He looked up, meeting his roommate's smiling eyes with his own dazed blue ones. "Jim...NBA All-Star tickets? I can't believe...how'd you..." His voice trailed off and he stared again at the box in his lap.

"Blair Sandburg, speechless. This is a rarity," Ellison teased.

"Tickets for both of us, right?" Sandburg asked, and his partner nodded. "You – d'you think Simon'll let us off? He'll be so mad..."

"Hey, he's not that petty. And he could get his own tickets, if he wanted to. It's a weekend anyway."

"Orvelle Wallace got 'em for you, didn't he?"

Jim nodded again. "Yup," he said smugly.

"Wow..." Blair fingered the tickets reverently, and then looked up again. "Jim, these are just – this is incredible. THANK YOU, man!"

"You're welcome, Chief – and please notice, I get to go too. Self-interest, again." Ellison tried to downplay the situation. "One more – better hurry it up; the guys'll be here soon."

The final box was about three feet long, and not very big around. Blair shook it tentatively. "What could this be? A yardstick?"

"Why don't you open it and find out?" Jim said patiently.

It was a Zircon® fly-fishing rod with an aluminum reel, and Blair thought it probably was the most beautiful fishing rod he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Jim..." He blinked back tears. "This is too much, man. Just too much."

"I might borrow it, Junior, don't forget that."

Sandburg swiped at his eyes. "Any time you want," he gulped.

"Hey, don't get salt water on the sweater," Jim chided gently, and reached to ruffle his friend's curls. Then he glanced up. "Someone's here."

"Then somebody's early. Stay there; I'll get it." Blair walked to the door just as a knock sounded, still wiping surreptitiously at his traitorous eyes. When he opened the door, he found a UPS deliveryman standing there holding a clipboard and a shoebox-sized package.

"Blair Sandburg?" the man inquired.

"That's me. You're working late tonight."

"Had a ton of deliveries – bad as Christmas! You're the last." He extended the clipboard.

Blair signed for the package, and brought it back to the couch, smiling. "It's postmarked Kona; it's from Naomi," he announced, and tore the brown wrapping paper off eagerly. Under the mailing wrap, the box was covered in colorful paper, and 'To Blair, Happy Birthday, Love, Naomi' inscribed in silver ink on the top.

Blair chuckled, working on the colored paper while Jim watched with interest. But when he got to the actual present – carefully shrouded in bubble-wrap – and lifted it from the box, the laughter died, his hands stilled, and his eyes widened in amazement. His mother had managed to surprise him once again.

"Wow." Jim's voice was hushed.

Two exquisitely-detailed carved animals, of similar size. A black jaguar in polished obsidian – standing guard, all curving, sinuous muscled lines and a fierce, watchful expression; a white wolf in ivory – crouched low in a playful stance, mouth open in a wide, wolfish grin. Both with inlaid blue eyes.

"Chief, did you tell Naomi—"

"Never. Not a word. Not...one...single...word."

They were still sitting on the couch, staring at the incredible gift, when their guests arrived.

The End

*Forever Young, Bob Dylan, ©1974

*When I'm Sixty-Four" Lennon and McCartney, ©1968

Note: According to Wikipedia, a maple bar IS a form of doughnut!


End file.
